


the Unwanted

by chocolatemilk2



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, M/M, Mind Games, public school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatemilk2/pseuds/chocolatemilk2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever wanted Mycroft, not Sherlock or mummy or John.<br/>So Mycroft stops trying to be what everyone else wants, not to figure out just what makes him wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Unwanted

He doesn’t remember being orphaned.

Mycroft knows he should investigate it, as Sherlock so often jeers his cowardice. Among other things. “Compensating for something?” with his double glance, first to Mycroft’s stomach and waistcoat, then his latest edition, today a Patek Phillipe watch hidden beneath his right cufflink.

Sherlock doesn’t understand why he fights so hard to be part of this family, he doesn’t approve. As if Mycroft shouldn’t attempt to buy out mummy and daddy with his kind words, good job and fancy suits—like he is his gluttony and that he should present an honest, ugly façade.

It’s an easy enough ethic for Sherlock to parade. Everything in his life is so effortless; his appearance, his antipathy, his genius. Mycroft has to fight twice as hard for what acceptance Sherlock wins merely for his birth; Sherlock’s flaws can be easily overlooked because they aren’t hidden, but Mycroft isn’t allowed to have flaws.

Mycroft was chosen for his potential and if that were to be wasted he is worthless. “You’re my replacement,” Sherlock often hissed as they grew, illogical, as if mummy and daddy knew what an embarrassment he would be pre-conception. A just in case scenario—Sherlock took it as a personal affront to his capability. Of which, he by course, found great relish in ruining.

His adoption is one of the few things Sherlock has mistaken. Mycroft wasn’t so much a ‘just in case’ so much as the only case. Sherlock had been unplanned mummy (accidentally) confided, a surprise. Mummy wasn’t supposed to be able to have children. Mummy scoured through all the adoptees on file in Great Britain (illegally, mind) to tweeze out the brightest on offer, like she would find the Elizabeth to her Frankenstein. A biological child in between the file pages.

Mycroft would have to make do. And then there was Sherlock, and Mycroft wasn’t necessary anymore; Sherlock was smarter than Mycroft, prettier and dearer. Why don’t you go outside, Mycroft? You really should wizen up, Mycroft. (“Beaten by a five year old, at twelve!”)

Sherlock’s rebellion is both Mycroft’s salvation – he has use again now, practical though not sentimental – and his damnation – that the man should throw away everything Mycroft has ever longed for like it doesn’t even matter.

Mycroft can still see the moment Sherlock realized, burned clear in his mind as for one of the first times Sherlock turned, directly looked straight at him (through him, rapt, garishly amused).

They’d sat at the back gardens near the manor, Mycroft was back from Eton with fresh lines on his face and vacuum in his ears. ‘Convenio Gnaritas,’ primary objective, secondary duty, subjective action. Qualitative and quantitative.

“How have you been letting on?” Mycroft asked his brother, whose small toe tips now touched the path below the bench instead of swinging above.

“Oh, as you do,” Sherlock replied— _I’ve been making do_ , the proper side of Mycroft’s brain instantly corrected. “Bored. You just came back from a deputy meeting. Wouldn’t hear the end of it, were they talking about grades?”

“They’re always talking about grades,” said Mycroft, smiling. “It’s Eton.”

Sherlock had pulled a face. “I don’t want to go to Eton. It looks poncy.”

“Now, that’s not fair to say,” slipped Mycroft. Sherlock, complaining already. “Mummy and daddy only want the best for you.”

“You’re working too hard, harder than usual. You sound like a politician.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He knew about the needless, wantless, endless, meetings, getting references. Probably the callouses on his hands. “You’re going for a scholarship.”

“Why wouldn’t I go for a scholarship if I thought I could get one?” defended Mycroft. “They’re prestigious.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Sherlock replied. “You want to work in human relations. Everyone hates scholarship babies, it’s a professional liability. Mum and dad wouldn’t approve; we’re too rich for charity. You want to go to Cambridge, you’re ambitious, you demand _the best_.”

“On my own merit.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Sherlock. As a fact, not with disbelief. “You would never deliberately do anything to harm your reputation. Braggery, that includes. So what is it?”

“Still making mysteries out of nothing I see.”

Sherlock didn’t take the Carl Powers bait. “Invasive, unlike you. This is personal. Why would it be personal? Because you feel inadequate. Why would you feel inadequate about a scholarship you didn’t want—only if you believed you needed to get one.” His eyes went wide. “No— _really_?”

“Not bored anymore I take it.”

“But mum and dad get everything from you! For god’s sake, you’re practically the centrepiece of the family dinner set. Young, polished and talented. I hadn’t reckoned our parents so cold.”

 _That’s because they love you within an inch of your life_ , Mycroft thought, but didn’t say anything.

“Why wouldn’t they pay your university fees for you?” Sherlock pressed.

There was less shame in the admission (Mycroft can fashion deception in truth) than being unable to keep a secret Sherlock would reason anyway.

“They value me less than you,” Mycroft told him. “It’s sensible when you think about it. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

Mycroft was never sorry for anything; more importantly, he was never sorry for anyone else. He didn’t get on with people he had to apologize for. Sherlock looked alarmed.

And then Sherlock’s eyes locked onto his in surprised judgement and a need for affirmation; no pity, just glee.

 _You’ve grown smarter,_ Mycroft thought, stupidly proud over the hurt and shame flooding his system; he stood up for the bench and made for the back door. Sherlock wasn’t to see his expression.

In Mycroft’s mind, Sherlock is still sitting there, eyes wide, the thought _you’re not actually my brother_ racing on his lips.

 

Sherlock lorded it over him in front of other people. He delights in the shamefacedness of it; the perfect son is the fitz, the bastard, the only-in-law. Sherlock told mummy he knew right in front of Mycroft, after an insinuation by him that Sherlock was ignorant (“keep up with school you have a lot to learn,” testing the boundaries) and Mycroft won’t ever forget the pity on his mother’s face.

“Sherlock, why don’t you check the boiler,” mummy suggested, obviously meaning to speak with Mycroft alone. As if he were sensitive.

“I’ll go too,” Mycroft said.

After Sherlock went to the school it got worse. He took every chance he had to deface the family (Mycroft’s) name, timing everything right for maximum chaos. And Mycroft was always left standing there apologizing to the poor dean who couldn’t expel Sherlock on principle for his stature, or scrambling for a smooth recovery in front of the head of MI6 who’s just had lemon juice poured down his front (he’s allergic to lemons).

“What would you have done if he was anaphylactic?” Sherlock demanded with a certain glee, skipping out from behind him around a service desk. “Quit?”

“Died, most probably,” Mycroft said condescendingly. They didn’t keep the head of the secret service unarmed.

“They’d never promote someone that enfeebled anyway, too dangerous. No use being Superman if you’ve got a kryptonite.”

Mycroft glanced over; heavy set jaw, satisfied gleam, goading. “You’ve been turned on to television, I see. Nice to know Eton’s teaching you something.”

“Deleted.”

He did that on purpose—Mycroft stepped into a limousine. “You should call it forgotten,” Mycroft replied. “It’s closer to the truth.”

Sherlock clenched his fists and slammed the car door and Mycroft knew he’d won.

 

Mycroft isn’t winning now.

Tomorrow’s passed. Sherlock’s happy – over the moon happy, I don’t need your games, Mycroft, happy – with the simple army doctor flatmate, and his play detective antics.

Work is hard, but it’s not the same, now that dad’s dead, mummy’s moving on and he has nothing to strive for. No one cares about the name Holmes except his enemies. There are no challengers. The only person who ever proves a challenge is more interested in his antithesis of a younger brother than him, and is verifiably evil. Mycroft wants some complication.

He wants to know who he is.

The paternity test is not hard and neither is telling his mother. The hard part, of course, is signing the pen away and giving up another of his achievements (the larger part of the dowry, a documented declaration) for Sherlock.

Sherlock texts back instantly. _I don’t want your will money,_ is his first complaint, then another. _Stop propositioning John. SH._

Mycroft grins—whatever Sherlock is, he is not a man of luxury. (He called that a proposition? The truth would be bribery.) _Think harder,_ he types.

 _Mid life crisis? Threatened at gunpoint?_ _Broke the law?_

 _Is that the best you can do?_ is Mycroft’s response.

_Plea for attention, lost identity. It hasn’t got too much for you like they all said, it’s not enough. You’re bored._

Mycroft can practically hear the smugness coming through the tone—Sherlock thinks Mycroft lives such a dull quiet life that whenever he can safely assume Mycroft’s boredwith it he gets all superior.

Don’t give him the chance. _No suggestions, then?_

 _You could always piss off._ A few minutes later. _That was John._

Sherlock agreed with the sentiment, though. Interesting distinction. But Mycroft had CCTV, he could tell who was inclined to message him. Sherlock supposing he didn’t on purpose, not accidental, Sherlock leaving a family conversation where John had access; taunting?

_Awful close, you two. A man like you forming such attachments frankly I’m surprised._

_What the hell do you mean a man like him?_

_This is Sherlock. Stop it._

Still bored. Bother.

_Sherlock is a sociopath, John. Would you like to see the records?_

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” John says on the little recording screen (out of focus, it’s irritating him).

 _That’s not funny,_ Sherlock warns as he takes the phone from John and stops and pauses, his brow furrowing. Knows he’s being personally rejected now, not just the family and the dowry. _Did they disown you?_

Mycroft spins on his chair. His brother, daft. _Oh please._

_I would have dismissed it out of character for them if weren’t for you, now. What’s happened? You’re not dying, are you?_

On screen, John opens his mouth to say something to Sherlock—the detective raises a silencing hand, staring down his phone.

 _What did she say to you?,_ Sherlock continues. Then he didn’t (first) suspect an immediate threat to Mycroft’s health; something debilitating. Factoring data from A Study in Pink, no doubt.

Mummy hasn’t said anything but “I consent.” Pragmatic woman, even in age.

_She didn’t._

Sherlock tears his glance away and chucks his coat on and strides for his shoes. “Sherlock?” John asks. “What’s going on?”

“I think we need to make a trip to the queen.”


End file.
